Love Me, Love Me Not Page 14

  “They’re not worth nearly that much,” I say. I have no idea what they’re worth, but she needs to think they’re worthless. “Mrs. Campbell paints as a hobby. She’s not very good. It’s just for fun.”

  “That’s not what Chase’s cousin says.”

  “He’s wrong.”

  “I don’t think he is.”

  She stands up and wraps her arm around my shoulders. “Hay-Hay, it’s our big break. Why can’t you see that? We’ll sell the paintings and be free. We can start over.”

  “You forget I’m in DSS custody. There’s no starting over for me.”

  “Sure, there is. We’ll move to Atlanta. I’ve already got something lined up. As soon as we leave the state, they can’t touch you or me.”

  I’m not sure that’s how it works, but I know she won’t listen to reason right now.

  “I can’t,” I say.

  “You won’t.”

  “Fine, I won’t.”

  She removes her arm, and her body crumples onto the sofa. Her shoulders shake with fake tears. This is predictable. If I don’t do what she wants, she tries to guilt me into it.

  “I—I just need some good luck,” she sobs. “This is our chance, Hay-Hay. We can turn everything around. We don’t even need you to do much. Just let us in sometime when no one is home. That’s it. Chase and his cousin will do the rest.”

  “No.”

  “Baby girl, you need to think about it for a while. They have tons of money; they can part with a little. We have nothing.”

  “That’s stealing.”

  “It’s called charity.”

  “It’s called a felony.”

  “Your hands will be clean.”

  “I said no, and I mean no. That’s it. End of discussion.”

  I start to turn around, but she jumps up from the sofa and rushes at me, her fake little crying act over. “I never should have had you, you ungrateful little bitch!” she yells, spit landing on my arm. It’s the same thing I’ve heard at least once a week for as long as I can remember.

  She reaches up and yanks on my hair hard enough to jerk my neck. I try to smack her hand away but hit her face instead.

  “Fuck you!” she says, smacking my cheek with her open palm. It stings, and I have to fight back the tears. I haven’t let her see me cry in five years, and I don’t want to start now.

  “Okay, okay!” Sherry yells, barging through the door with a large man. “Break it up, you two.” The man steps behind my mom and holds her arms tight to her side. Sherry stands next to me with her arm over my shoulders.

  The security guard ushers my mom out, and then Sherry sits me down on the sofa. “Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t know it was going to be this bad.”

  I shrug. I could have told her that, but since I never offered the information, I can’t really hold it against her.

  “How did you know what she was doing?” I ask.

  She points to a mirror on the other side of the room. “Two-way mirror.”

  Of course. It’s good to know they take some precautions. “Could you hear her, too?”

  “No, we don’t have a microphone in here. Is there something you want me to know?”

  I think about her question. Should I tell her what my mom wants me to do? Probably.

  But what if they move me to a different foster home to try to protect me? I’d never see the Campbells again. It’s not like Chase can get into the Campbells’ house anyway. After Brad’s tires were slashed, they updated their security system. There’s no way Chase is smart enough to get through it.

  “No,” I finally say. I’m not willing to give up everything for that small risk. I know I’m being selfish, but I can’t bring myself to tell Sherry what my mom said. Doing so would mean no more Gigi, no more Gil, no more Brad. I can’t give them up.

  “Okay,” Sherry says with a sigh. “You’ve got my number if you change your mind.”

  I nod, and then she continues. “I no longer think it’s in your best interest to be reunified with your mother.”

  “You think?” I reply with a smirk.

  She smiles in return. “Our options are for you to seek emancipation or stall on future visits until you age out.”

  “How does emancipation work?”

  “You’d be considered an adult and would have to support yourself. I don’t want you quitting school, which means things could be challenging. We could find some financial support for you, but I’d rather you stay in foster care until you’re eighteen.”

  I nod. That’s what I want, too.

  “I’ll suspend your mother’s visits. Do you think she could regularly pass weekly drug screens?”

  “No.”

  “Then six consecutive clean screens will be a requirement for further visits. That should be enough to stall until your birthday.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, hugging her. Hopefully, I’ll always remember today as being the last time I ever saw my mom.

  *

  Ten minutes later, I stare out the door of DSS, looking for my ride. Gigi usually drives me to foster-care things, but Brad volunteered today. He’s been going out of his way to spend time with me, which is nice, but also stressful. Every time, I worry Gil or Gigi will see right through it and accuse me of liking their son.

  There he is—way at the back of the parking lot, of course. He’s standing next to his car, talking to someone. I start to head outside, but when the other figure turns around, I stop dead in my tracks.

  It’s Chase.

  Crap, crap, crap. How did this happen? I haven’t seen him in weeks. How did he end up at DSS the same day as me?

  I step to the side and lean against the wall, watching the two of them. They’re both tense, but at least no one’s throwing punches.

  I start chewing on my nail as my stomach grows queasy. They seem to just be talking, but I wouldn’t put it past Chase to try something.

  Just then, Brad puffs up his chest, says something with a murderous look, and pushes Chase. He stumbles backward and my heart stops. This is it. Chase is going to hurt him.

  I turn around and sprint to the receptionist. “Excuse me,” I say, tapping on the glass. “There are two guys fighting in the parking lot. Can you call the security guard?”

  “What?” the middle-aged woman asks, standing up.

  “In the parking lot. Hurry,” I urge.

  She jumps up and rushes from her office. When she’s at the front door, she says, “I don’t see anything.”

  “In the back,” I reply, joining her. Once I look out the window, I realize she’s right. Chase is gone, and Brad’s back in his car. What in the world happened?

  “Um … I guess they left,” I murmur, feeling like an idiot.

  She gives me an annoyed look before returning to the office.

  I take a deep breath and step outside, afraid I might be ambushed by Chase at any moment. I stand there for a few seconds and scan the parking lot, but don’t see him. I take a few tentative steps, still wary, but there’s no one here.

  I speed up, not exactly running, but getting to Brad’s car much quicker than I normally would.

  “How’d the visit go?” he asks when I climb inside.

  I search his face for a black eye, his arms and legs for blood, but there’s nothing. He looks just as good now as he did an hour ago. “What happened between you and Chase?” I ask.

  He grimaces. “You saw that?”

  “Yeah. I saw you shove him, and then I tried to get help. As soon as I got back, he was gone.”

  He frowns. “I didn’t need help.”

  “I didn’t want you ending up hurt.”

  “I’m not hurt.”

  “Good,” I reply, blowing out a long breath.

  “Look,” he says, locking his eyes onto mine and grabbing my hands. “I told you Chase won’t be a problem. That means he won’t be a problem ever again. I made a promise to you, and I always keep my promises. He’s not going to hurt you. He’s not going to hurt me.”

&nb
sp; I nod. I believe him.

  “Did you … hurt him?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Then why’d he leave?”

  “I threatened to call the cops and tell them he was selling weed in the parking lot.”

  “Was he?”

  “Hell if I know,” he says with a shrug. “It got him out of here, though.”

  I nod again, then drop my gaze to my lap as the fear subsides and is replaced by relief. Relief Brad’s okay. Relief I didn’t have to talk to Chase. And, annoyingly, relief Chase isn’t hurt. As much as I dislike him, I don’t really want him getting beat up because of me. “Thanks,” I say.

  “No problem. So, how’d your visit go?”

  “Don’t ask,” I mumble, buckling my seat belt.

  “That good?”

  I turn and point to my still-stinging cheek.

  “What the hell?” he asks, gripping my chin and angling my face to get a better look. “Your mom did this to you?”

  “Yeah.”

  He rubs his thumb over the sore area. “Does it hurt?”

  “Not too bad.”

  Clenching his jaw, he says, “You need ice.”

  “I’m fine. Really.”

  He ignores me and puts the car in drive, heading for the exit of the parking lot. He turns into traffic and asks, “Sherry let this happen?”

  “She stopped her. It could’ve been worse.”

  While we wait at a light, he glances over at me, his neck muscles tight as guitar strings. “Did your mom do this a lot?”

  I shake my head.

  “Really?”

  I nod. “It’s more of a recent thing,” I say with a shrug. The first time she hit me was just over a year ago, and it didn’t happen regularly until a few months ago.

  “Is this why DSS got you out of there?”

  I nod again.

  The light turns green, and he makes a left into the parking lot for Bojangles.

  He pulls into a spot close to the door, between two cars. He never parks between cars. I glance behind us and see an entire row of empty spaces.

  “I’ll be right back,” he says, opening the door and rushing inside.

  I watch him through the glass. There’s no one at the counter, so he goes straight to the cashier. He says something, nods, and then hands the woman a credit card.

  While he waits at the counter, tapping his foot, I lean my head against the window. Why did I tell him what happened? He doesn’t need to know this kind of stuff about me. And now he’s worried for no reason. I really should have told him the meeting was great and left it at that.

  A couple of minutes later, he’s back outside and digs through his trunk before climbing into the car with a cup, a grease-stained bag, and a crumpled T-shirt. He dumps ice from the cup into the T-shirt, then balls it up and hands it to me.

  I say, “I’m okay. Really.”

  “It will help with bruising. Trust me. I have a little experience with this stuff.”

  “Really?” I guess I can believe it with the way he handled Chase, but it’s not like he goes around picking fights.

  He shrugs. “Football can get kind of physical.”

  Oh, of course.

  “Anyway, you probably don’t want to have to explain a big bruise on the side of your face to Mom and Dad or anyone at school.”

  I grab the T-shirt from his hands and press it to my face without any more arguing.

  “Chicken?” he asks, passing a box to me.

  “We just had lunch a little while ago.”

  “I couldn’t go in there and ask for only ice,” he says, laying the box on my leg and then handing me a biscuit, too. Next, he pulls out an even larger box and sets it on his lap.

  I watch him as he opens the lid and downs a drumstick in no time. When he moves on to a second one, the smell of fried chicken finally gets to me and I take a bite.

  “You didn’t need to get all this food,” I say, licking the grease off my fingers. “You could’ve just ordered a biscuit and a cup of ice.”

  “I couldn’t pass up the opportunity for fried chicken. You know,” he says, looking at me, “you should feel special.”

  “Why?”

  “I never let anyone eat in my car. Ever. Not Adam. Not Dad. No one.”

  That I believe. He keeps his car as spotless as Gigi keeps her kitchen and Gil keeps his office. It must be a Campbell trait.

  “I do feel special,” I say with a smirk. I’m trying to be sarcastic, but it doesn’t work. He makes me feel special practically every day and doesn’t even realize it. It doesn’t take much. A smile from across the cafeteria. Holding a door open for me. Switching the music to something I like whenever I’m in his car. He’s sweet and considerate, and it seems like it’s just second nature for him. He’s not putting on an act, it’s just who he is.

  “Good. You are,” he says, squeezing my knee and making me grin. Sometimes I feel like such a giddy little girl around him.

  After finishing our second lunch of the day, we start to head back to his house, but Brad makes a detour after turning into his neighborhood.

  “The park?” I ask.

  “Yep. Unless you have something you need to do?”

  I shake my head and smile at his suggestion. Over the past two weeks, we’ve made a few trips to the park. It’s always empty and is set back from the road quite a bit on three sides. The fourth side borders a pond, so there’s plenty of privacy. Not that we’ve done much that requires privacy—just some hand-holding and sitting way too close to each other as he tries to convince me to give him a chance. Even so, it’s been nice to spend time alone with him, talking and getting to know each other better without expectations, like I always had with Chase.

  After parking, he reaches into the backseat and grabs a bag of sliced bread. “I came prepared today.”

  “Lucky turtles.” There’s a dock that extends into the pond and whenever we sit on it, tons of turtles come up to us, sticking their heads out of the water, begging for food.

  As we stroll down to the water, I reach for his hand, surprising myself with my boldness. This is so not me. I always let him initiate any contact. As soon as he winds his fingers through mine, I know it was the right decision. All the anger and disappointment from my visit with my mom and the fear of seeing Chase disappear in a puff of smoke. It’s just the two of us, alone, and suddenly everything feels right with the world again.

  He grins and says, “Feeling brave, huh?”

  “Well, we never see anything but turtles here, and I don’t think they’ll be telling anyone anytime soon.”

  “If they do, the world has bigger problems than you and me.”

  “Right. Mutant talking turtles are definitely a bigger problem.”

  “Exactly.”

  He leads me down to the dock, where we sit next to each other, our legs dangling above the water, its surface smooth as glass. Not only is this place private, but it’s peaceful.

  We wait for the first turtle head to appear. It doesn’t take long. Within a few seconds, there’s one, then two, then three, all keeping their distance as they study us. Brad opens the bag and tosses a pea-sized piece of bread to the closest one. It hits the surface, but before the turtle can grab it, a fish darts up and gets it.

  “Aww, man,” I say, reaching for my own bread. I tear off a piece and try to feed the turtle myself, but the same fish steals it. “That little…”

  “Shithead?” Brad offers.

  I smile. “I was going to say jerk.”

  “Of course you were. You have a much cleaner mouth than me. One of the many things I like about you.”

  I turn and watch him. Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve thought a lot about what he sees in me. I’m clearly not in his league, but I genuinely believe he likes me. There’s no reason for him to pretend he does if he doesn’t.

  “What?” he asks, smiling down at me.

  “Just wondering what the other things are.”

  “What other things?”<
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  “That you like in me.”

  “Oh.”

  He doesn’t say anything else, and I start to worry he’s realized his mistake.

  “Do you want to know?” he finally asks.

  “Well, yeah.”

  He scoots closer until our legs are touching, and then he puts his arm around my back, his hand at my waist. “You’re strong.”

  “I’m not strong.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re the strongest girl I’ve ever met.”

  I push up my sleeve and flex my tiny little bicep. “Not strong,” I say.

  He laughs and hugs me tighter against his side. “Not physically. Emotionally. I realized it the night you ran away.”

  “Running away from problems seems pretty weak to me.”

  “But you changed your mind. Plus, you’re hot as hell. Don’t forget that.”

  My cheeks heat up at his compliment. Chase only ever told me I was hot when we were messing around, so it’s weird to hear it from someone when we’re just sitting here feeding turtles and talking. It’s nice, but strange, and makes me feel like he’s already committed himself to a relationship if he’s saying those kinds of things to me.

  I tear off another piece of bread and toss it to a brave turtle who has swum closer. Once again, a fish steals it. “Poor turtles,” I complain. “They’re not going to get any.”

  “Maybe I can lure him in,” Brad says, extending his arm out as far as he can reach. The turtle paddles in closer and closer until he’s right below Brad’s fingers. He drops the bread and the turtle opens his mouth, but misses. The food falls into the water, where it’s gobbled up by fish.

  “Almost,” I say, forming a mountain of bread balls. My plan is to throw them all in at once to overwhelm the fish. Once they’re busy chowing down, I can throw in more for the turtles.

  “Okay, ready for this?” I ask, cupping most of the bread in my hands.

  “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  I throw in the pile, and once the fish are preoccupied, I toss a couple of pieces to nearby turtles. They dive and grab them, eating them in one gulp each.

  “Nice technique,” he says, rocking his body into mine.

  Over the next ten minutes, it turns into a game—who can feed the most turtles. We each try our own method and eventually we get them both to work. Mine ends up feeding more turtles but wasting a lot of bread. Brad ends up with a small group of loyal turtle friends, who look like a pack of puppies following him around wherever he moves on the dock.